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centrating instead on the dull, regular thuds of the trenchbuts as they flung boulders against the walls of the keep. There was a new sound to one place, a creaking screech that told of crumbling mortar and slipping stones. Ian listened and smiled again when a second blow produced a similar sound sooner than any trenchbut could be reloaded. Someone had ordered that two or more be played on some weakening spot. |
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Yesterday had been a good day all around. The channel to drain the moat had been finished. During the night, the fragile dam that held back the waters had been breached. Nothing but a stinking ditch would be left now. The ramps to span the ditch were ready, as were the scaling ladderssix days from the time he had arrived and demanded that the castellan yield the keep. Not bad. Each leader of the troops he had summoned seemed sincere in his efforts. Ian suspected there was a feeling of righteous spite spurring them on. Doubtless, all had considered rebellion, at least passingly, when news of Simon's death had come to them. They had decided against it, some out of respect for their own oaths and honor, but some out of a fear of losing what they had. Possibly, as the months passed and the rebellious ones were not brought to heel, they had regretted their ''cowardice." Now they would not only prove themselves brave but, more important, right. |
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Then there had been that letter from Alinor. Ian shifted on his camp bed and it creaked. He was aware from the corner of his eyes that Geoffrey had sat up, but he lay still in his new position and the squire lay down again. Owain still slept. Owain had been at more than one keep-taking; when he woke he would be eager and alert, but not as excited as Geoffrey. Alinor had asked after the squires and sent them kind messages and some small comfortsa new shirt for each and a pair of hose, and sugared plums. Ian laughed softly as he remembered how the boys had fallen upon the treat, making a fool of him who had wondered that Alinor |
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